How to Choose the Best Restaurant
by MondayVibes
Summary: Mustang, Hawkeye, and the others reveal their secrets to navigating Central's bustling hospitality industry.


**Disclaimer:** Fullmetal Alchemist/Hagane no RenkinJutsushi belongs to Arakawa-san. I just borrow the characters from time to time and hope that I don't break them… too much.

* * *

 **How to Choose the Best Restaurant**

* * *

 _Fuery_

The young Master Sergeant blinked his surprise at the unexpected question, glanced down at the transcript he'd been studying as though it might reveal the answer, then cast his gaze about the office, where his coworkers were trying—with varying degrees of success—not to laugh.

"How… how do I choose the best _restaurant_?" He asked.

It wasn't like it was a _hard_ question or anything, but the bespectacled man acted like he'd been asked to explain the finer details of modern physics—energy and mass and the speed of light and all that. Sheesh.

He let out an awkward chuckle and pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"Well, uh, to know which restaurants are the _best_ , you'd have make enough money to try a few of them, wouldn't you?" Fuery finally mumbled. "Since transferring to Central, I've only eaten the food I've made myself or the stuff they offer in the mess hall."

* * *

 _Breda_

The rotund man leaned back in his chair, and a cocky, knowing smirk crept across his face.

"Choosing the best restaurant is _easy_ ," he said, and his voice filled the office, echoing off his coworkers' desks as his eyes darted over to Fuery. The younger man buried himself behind his work, but not quickly enough to hide his darkening cheeks.

"You see, you've got to find a place where you get the most bang for your buck—not one of those ritzy places where they give you a single duck wing and two potatoes and charge you five thousand cenz for it. Now, in the market quarter, there's this great vendor that sells stew and chowder and soup in these massive bread bowls. Only charges fifty cenz for 'em too…"

* * *

 _Falman_

Falman didn't even hesitate before dragging open the bottom drawer of his desk. Long fingers flipped through the many folders stored there and, with a satisfied noise, the aging warrant officer pulled out a thick manila folder, marked with a splash of pink in the left-hand corner, and placed it precisely on top of the inventory report he'd been reviewing.

"An interesting question," he proclaimed, and began flipping through the folder as he spoke. "Choosing the best restaurant, of course, can only be determined by a multitude of factors which must be given variable weights, which in turn must be assigned based on each circumstance of the outing."

He paused, pulled out a few options with "NM" scrawled across the right hand corner, and turned them over. "A casual outing among colleagues, for instance, could very well place more importance on the conviviality of any potential target location. The ages of all parties invited to any outing must almost be taken into consideration, as—"

* * *

 _Havoc_

"How do _I_ choose the best restaurant?" The man asked. He took a drag from the cigarette dangling between his lips and grinned.

"Simple. If her boobs aren't that big, then we go to a cheaper place. If her rack is _huge_ , then so is my wallet."

* * *

 _Hawkeye_

"It's good to hear that you're trying to get several opinions on the matter." Hawkeye was calm as ever, and her voice was even and collected. If looks could kill, though, the glare she sent in the direction of the office's personal chimney would have no doubt sent Havoc to the morgue in less time than it took to say "sexist pig."

At least Havoc had the presence of mind to quickly snub out his cigarette and mumble something about needing to grab more ink for his pen before making a hasty retreat to the supply closet.

"Choosing the best restaurant…" She paused, tossed the question about her head, then raised her eyes again. "Warrant Office Falman, I'll admit, was correct when he mentioned that it depends on the situation at hand. Before choosing a location, I'd suggest learning more about your dinner partner's food preferences and what type of dining atmosphere they would prefer."

The office door edged open, and Havoc cast his eyes about the room to check if the coast was clear.

"After all," Hawkeye added. "Not everyone enjoys an unnecessarily lavish meal, even if they _are_ generously proportioned."

Havoc swallowed audibly, and ducked out of the room again.

* * *

 _Mustang_

The dark haired colonel offered his infuriating trademark smirk at the question, and steepled his fingers over the paperwork he obviously wasn't working on while he pretended to mull over the words.

"There's really no reason to sound so angry about bringing a question like that to someone with more fine dining experience than yourself," Mustang said, even as his squared should and the crinkle of his eyes _oozed_ a level of smugness that would almost be alarming if it wasn't so disgusting.

"While choosing the _best_ restaurant has a certain level of subjectivity to it, there are a few generalizations one can apply."

He began ticking off his self-made rules on his fingers. "Anything from a vendor or food stall, for instance, obviously should not be considered, as should any restaurant which deep fries the majority of its dishes. You can safely rule out any restaurants found within a one kilometer range of the docks at the east end of the city, as well as those found around the second laboratory.

"The Lieutenant Hawkeye is correct, of course, in mentioning how important it is to consider your dining partner's preferences, but it's worth considering your own preferences, as well—though I doubt this will be much of a concern in your case. I can assure you that your dining partner will notice if you've chosen an establishment that you yourself find uncomfortable, and this can ruin the whole experience.

"The final consideration is how you intend on structuring your evening as a whole. If you intend on impressing a lady—not that I would expect something of the sort from you, but I'll mention it anyway—a night out at the theatre is a classic, though not entirely inspired, option, and there are some excellent restaurants within a short walking distance from the Greater Amestrian Theatre. Keeping in mind that a female companion will most likely not be wearing practical footwear, I would recommend Le Ciel—I had a _lovely_ experience there just last week, so much so that Josephine was quite eager to let me know just how much her had enjoyed the food and, of course, the evening as a—"

Abruptly, Mustang's decidedly dreamy gaze sharpened. "You're the one who asked the question. Now either accept the information and stop rolling your eyes or leave."

With silence as his answer, Mustang cleared his throat and continued his diatribe.

"If your companion is interested in something more casual," he said, eyes narrowed now with a certain level of suspicion, "you should consider heading to the university, as several of the cafes and eateries offer live music in the evenings. Cantinetta Allora in particular—"

The sound of a loudly closing door cut him off.

* * *

 _Alphonse_

The silence stretched for a full five seconds before Al spoke, his voice echoing from behind the empty helmet that was his head. "How do _I_ …? Sheesh, Brother, I just point out the first restaurant I see when you start complaining about how hungry you are."

Carefully, he grabbed a scrap of paper from the worn little coffee table beside him and wedged it firmly into the heavy tome he'd been reading. The book itself joined the mess of ink-splattered notes and sketched out arrays on the coffee table while Al turned his eyes to his older brother. Somehow, the dull metal ventail that formed his face still expressed just how stupid the younger Elric thought the question was.

Edward groaned, slid his well-worn red coat from his shoulders and tossed it carelessly over the back of the couch. Not even a heartbeat later, he dropped onto the couch and buried his face into the lumpy cushions. From his place on the floor, Al could clearly make out the sad remnants of his brother's automail arm, its bottom edges twisted and blackened, and a tangle of wires dangling from where a forearm should be.

"She's really gonna kill me this time," Ed mumbled into the cushions, sounding for all the world like a desperate man sent to the gallows. "I just know it."

* * *

FIN

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 **Random tid-bits of information:**

1\. Le Ciel and Cantinetta Allora—Whaddaya know, these are real restaurants. Le Ciel is found near the Viennese opera house, while Cantinetta Allora is close to the University of Vienna.


End file.
